


Between Showers

by MonikaKrasnorada



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, sentient umbrella, umbrella pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-05 22:48:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18375659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonikaKrasnorada/pseuds/MonikaKrasnorada
Summary: I always believed Mycroft being known as the "Ice Man" was about more than Queen and Country.





	Between Showers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IamJohnLocked4life](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamJohnLocked4life/gifts).



> This is a fic originally posted for the Brollylock Challenge years ago. 
> 
> Thank you for remembering it, jl4l.

_I’m rarely out of my stand these days. It’s okay, really it is. I understand._

_Sentiment._

_And, we know how this one is about sentiment. He’s ten times worse than the other one. But, it’s understandable, isn’t it? Once burned, twice shy. Is that the saying? I forget; no matter. He has his reasons and that’s all I need to know, or care about, quite frankly._

_Whiling away my time in this forgotten stand does tend to get unbearably lonely over time, so much so that I start to remember and that’s no good for anyone. However, when it’s been days since I’ve felt the brush of his fingers (even as he reaches for the rather pedestrian malacca cane), or settled my crook in the strong, sturdy palm of his hand, it’s terribly hard (nay inconvenient) to have those memories come rushing back…_

 

* * *

 

 

“Why on earth I ever let you talk me into coming to Tokyo in June is beyond me.” Mycroft complained, as they dashed beneath the awning of the closest shop.

The rain came down in sheets, drowning the city in humidity, pressing far beyond its saturation point.

“I don’t recall much in the way of resistance. No, if I recall correctly, there was a bit of breathlessness and a teensy bit of begging when I suggested you come along,” came the rather suggestive reply at Mycroft’s ear.

They had met at uni, both working toward careers in civil service, though in vastly different sectors. Mycroft was more the sitting down type whereas Radja was happy doing leg work. This was their final summer break before each stepped into roles, that while low on the ladder at present, would eventually lead to conspicuous minor roles in government in the not too distant future.

They had found not only common interests in their chosen fields, but a growing and abiding friendship which had quickly turned to something more. The choice of spending this summer together was to test how strong that bond was and what it might mean to their future happiness.

Twenty-two wasn’t too young to know what you wanted to do with your life...nor whom you wanted to spend it with.

While Radja Palit was a terrible tease, he had also grown to be the sun ‘round which Mycroft Holmes orbited.

Suppressing the shiver that always followed in the wake of Radja’s low timbre, Mycroft rolled his eyes, bumping his shoulder into the other man in admonition. “Ugh, I’m soaked to the skin.” He pulled the oxford of his Hugh and Crye away from his chest with a squelch. “Oh, my poor lamb. We can’t have that now, can we?” A strong arm came to rest around

“Oh, my poor lamb. We can’t have that now, can we?” A strong arm came to rest around Mycroft’s shoulder, chafing down the damp sleeve of his arm in offered warmth. “You are sweet and I can’t have you melting like sugar-”

Mycroft could feel the flush of heat rising up his throat at the endearing words Radja was never spare in bestowing upon him. It was ridiculous. He had never thought he would be a fan of flowery words and praise, or overt gestures of affection, but Radja had proven him wrong on too many occasions to count since they had become whatever it is they were. Mycroft was still reluctant to label.

_Not enough data._

“A-ha! Wait right here.” Radja pressed a quick peck to Mycroft’s cheek before running across the street, bounding over puddles and disappearing through the open door of a crowded sundries shop.

The whirlwind departure left Mycroft gaping like a fish. He should have been used to Radja’s flights of boundless energy. He was going to get himself killed one day, heedless as he was for his own personal safety. Mycroft could only hope it was a symptom of youth and would work itself out of Radja’s system before they embarked on their chosen careers.

Radja’s path to working for MI5 would leave no room for mistake. Watching him run headlong and carefree across that street was terrifying in it’s own right. To imagine him in service to Queen and country, guns blazing while tracking international terrorists, or thwarting espionage and saboteurs, was the stuff of Mycroft’s nightmares.

While the thought left Mycroft cold, it wasn’t something they ever shied away from discussing. Neither of their future’s would be without danger, they were certain. Mycroft only hoped Radja would learn to not to take unnecessary risks.

Determined to push the sobering thought aside, Mycroft managed to recover enough to school his features into something less resembling fear before Radja reappeared in the doorway.

The sky was gun-metal grey, the clouds hanging so low and laden with moisture as to obscure the tops of the tallest buildings of the city center. The rain had set in and wasn’t about to let up anytime soon, but Mycroft’s entire world lit up, bright as the clearest English morning, with the winning smile that Radja flashed as he returned to Mycroft’s side. Rain pelted him, his hair sleek against his scalp, smooth as a raven’s wing instead of implementing the long, black umbrella now in his hand, he twirled it at his leisure. As he reached Mycroft’s side, he opened the umbrella with a flourish, the canopy stretching open with a pop. He leaned forward at the waist in a curt bow as he proffered it forward for Mycroft’s use.

“Good, sir.” He teased.

With another dramatic roll of his eyes, Mycroft grasped the handle alongside Radja’s hand. The umbrella became their excuse to huddle close as they made their way down the lane.

“You’re ridiculous.” Mycroft eyed Radja’s smirk as they walked, shoulders bumping with every step, their hands entwined around the curve of the handle. “You looked like Charlie Chaplin crossing that street with this ridiculous thing twirling in your hand.”

Well, truth be told, it was only the umbrella that had anything to do with resembling Charlie Chaplin. Radja was much more handsome.

Barking a laugh, Radja turned them down an unfamiliar alleyway. “I knew you would notice that.”

They had been to see Chaplin’s _“Between Showers”_ at a squalid little arthouse in Brixton just the week before they’d left for Tokyo. Mycroft was touched by Radja’s sentiment. It was, indeed, a spot-on replica: a black, slim-rolled gentleman’s umbrella with a needle tip and the lusciously smooth Whangee bamboo handle.

Choosing to hide his delight, Mycroft struggled to appear nonplussed by his own transparency. “It’s iconic! He always carried a Whangee cane umb- Oomph!”

Mycroft suddenly found himself pressed against the wooden siding of the alley wall, Radja pressed close and warm along his rain-soaked front, his smiling mouth only a breath from Mycroft’s own.

“I know how much you admire Chaplin. I’m the one that sits next to you in those dreary little theatres, if you recall.” Mycroft could almost feel the smile on Radja’s lips, though he was too close to see it. Radja’s breath between words, ghosting over Mycroft’s mouth, his cheek, as he edged his nose along the fine blade of Mycroft’s. “What do we say about coincidence?”

Mycroft was thankful to be saved from answering as Radja finally closed the space between them, Mycroft was thankful to be saved from answering as Radja finally closed the space between them, pressing his lips to Mycroft’s. The kiss was more than welcome, Mycroft’s mouth opening urgently, always near-desperate for the taste of him, the breath of him.

Crowded against the wall, Radja pushed closer, seeking to end all distance between them, fusing their bodies as tightly as possible. Mycroft moaned his pleasure as the warmth of Radja’s body seeped through the wet fabric of their clothes into Mycroft’s chilled, damp skin.

Rain pelted the canopy of the umbrella that unsteadily hovered over them, the sound loud enough to drown out the noise of their breathing, the low murmurs they whispered between biting kisses until Radja pulled away. Mycroft leaned forward, trying to connect once again, desperate for it in fact, but Radja stayed him with a firm palm to his chest. He reached for Mycroft’s free hand, breaking his grip at the fabric at Radja’s waist, and brought it to rest around the handle.

“Hold your umbrella, love,” he instructed.

Mycroft blinked slowly, his mouth opened in a thwarted question as Radja shook his head, one brow raised, and smirked. “Hold it,” he repeated with a tone that brooked no argument as he dropped to his knees and Mycroft’s own nearly buckled beneath him. Radja looked up at him, his brown eyes the colour of warm honey, and Mycroft swallowed hard, his hands tightening like a vice around the nobbed bamboo handle. Radja’s fingers pulled at the hem of his shirt and the muscles of Mycroft’s stomach quivered at the touch of chilled fingers.

It was insanity. It had to be. They should not be doing this here, but Mycroft knew that neither of them were going to call it off. It was inevitable and Mycroft was more than ready for him to just bloody get on with it. He nearly growled those very words as Radja took his time unfastening his trousers.

In answer, there was a knowing warm huff of laughter against his stomach and then that shocking cool touch of his fingers where he needed it most, as Radja released Mycroft’s length from the damp confines of his pants. His hips pushed forward in need, seeking the comfort of Radja’s mouth. Radja crooned in welcome with a salacious flick of his tongue. “My little tramp.”

 

*****

 

One of them should have closed the window. The puddle collecting beneath it was starting to get out of hand, and Mycroft was certain they did not want to upset the elderly woman from whom they were leasing since it was apparent her son was rather involved with the Yakuza.

Although that should have been more than enough incentive, the urge was quickly overridden and forgotten as there were more pressing matters to concern themselves with once they had stumbled through the door.

Now, in the grey light of early evening, they lay naked, sprawled across the unkempt bed, Radja pressed against Mycroft’s back, his lankier frame curved around the man in front of him. His mouth worked at the ball of Mycroft’s shoulder as his hips moved in slow, languid circles, where his cock lay buried deep within the constrictive heat of Mycroft’s body. His fist tightly wrapped around Mycroft’s own where they worked Mycroft’s cock in unison. Their skin was still raindamp but now sweat-slick as they had immediately and frantically fallen into bed to finish what was started in the alleyway.

“ _Tsuyu._ ” Mycroft groaned, breaking the silence of their concentration as he pushed back to meet Radja’s thrusts, stroking and pulling with his hand in time.

He could feel Radja smile against the slick skin of his shoulder, apparently used to his lover’s wandering thoughts when they were so engaged. “Hmm?” He indulged, shifting slightly before closing his eyes in bliss.

It was exquisite- this slow torture. They were both so close. It was clear in the growing tension along the muscles of Mycroft’s back, the proof echoed in the laboured breaths between Radja’s languid thrusts. But, they hovered there, something holding them back, making them keen to savour. To wait.

To draw this out as long as possible.

“The rainy season. _Tsuyu_ ,” Mycroft managed to breathe. “It means-”

“It means, ‘plum rain.’” Radja finished for him.

“Mmm,” Mycroft moaned and pressed back with renewed fervor, fighting the urge to seek an end to this pleasured torture, but his mind was not one to falter as he couldn’t help but carry on with the topic. “It coincides with the ripening of the plums.”

“Yes. Your favorite,” Radja hummed against that secret place behind Mycroft’s ear which was sure to drive him mad. His tongue traced the curve at the outer edge, nipping at the lobe as Mycroft groaned in pleasure. “ _My_ favorite,” Radja whispered his confession.

Mycroft arched his back, pressing tighter against the sweat-damp body behind him, seeking that bit more, deeper, harder. Radja’s breathless endearment sent a flush of heat racing down Mycroft’s spine, exquisite pleasure flooding along each nerve-ending in his body. Radja had never failed to make Mycroft feel anything less than treasured, but they had never…There were things they hadn’t yet dared to say, and those unspoken words hovered there now, between them, heavy and past-due.

“Myc. _Myc_.” Radja moaned, desperate as a plea, begging to be understood. His hips were insistent, driving, his grip tightening as Mycroft thrust into the slick slide of their combined hands wound so tightly around his aching cock.

Mycroft felt Radja’s need, the answering terrible desperation of his lover, keen as his own. The rain, the sweat, the damp perfume of the city outside their sanctuary mixed with the heady aroma of sex, surrounded them, enveloped them, but Mycroft was greedy for more.

“Please,” Plaintive and stark, a word rarely uttered by him, but in this moment, Mycroft found it easy to allow it past his lips.

“Anything. I give you everything,” Radja pledged, a solemn vow, and Mycroft moaned softly as his lover’s teeth grazed the skin of his neck, his hips stuttered and their grip tightened, the simultaneous combination sending Mycroft hurtling over the edge.

He came in waves; slow, torturous expulsions over their fists that left him gasping. The intensity was cumulative as he felt Radja tense along his back, followed by the warm, familiar pulse that was his own release deep and right within Mycroft’s welcoming body.

It was a slow, inexorable fall back to earth. There was nothing in that moment but the sound of rain and the laboured breaths of their spent passion. Mycroft luxuriated in the hedonism of these moments- too hot, too close- the glacial unwinding as they both slipped back to the realm of the living.

He arched his back, twisted his head to meet Radja’s waiting mouth, thirsting for the touch and taste of his lips. There was a low hiss from Mycroft as Radja released his hand, his grip slipping from where it still held Mycroft so firmly before it traveled up, drifting across Mycroft’s abdomen. He trailed his hand through the cooling evidence of his release, smearing it up across Mycroft’s chest before it stopped and he wrapped his long fingers around Mycroft’s throat. He held Mycroft in place, his mouth just where he wanted, as the kiss turned ravenous. The action was possessive, intense, just close to too much.

Mycroft’s throat felt tight but it had nothing to do with the hand that held him captive. “I love you,” he whispered, the words pressed against Radja’s mouth, feeling the obstruction in his throat instantly ease.

Radja abruptly pulled back, just enough to look down upon Mycroft’s face. His eyes were unreadable and for a terrifying, heart-stopping moment, Mycroft feared he had made a grave error in judgment, all Radja can manage, “Truly?”

“Of course,” The thought that Radja didn’t know- every second of everyday- was unbelievable. “I love you.” It was so much easier the second time because he thought, maybe…

“I love you, too.” Before he had time to contemplate the impact of his words, Radja moved, pressing Mycroft flat against the bed, the weight of his body resting all along the length of Mycroft’s. Their mouths collided with force and a new level of hunger, an edge of desperation, as if to force the other to believe the vehemence of their confession.

Once the shock had passed, the kiss eased into something more relaxed and blissful, allowing for them to draw back, just enough for breath. Radja’s fingers brushed against the skin of Mycroft’s temple, his eyes bright as he stared down into Mycroft’s face.

“I love you.” It was as if Radja were trying the word on for size, repeating the phrase until he was content with the feel of it. He smiled with his entire face and Mycroft felt it like the warmth of the noon day sun.

“I love you.” What more was there to say?

The look that passed between them said it all. This was it. No need for vows or promises. It was understood.

Radja placed one more kiss in affirmation against Mycroft’s lips before peeling himself apart from where he was practically glued against Mycroft’s chest.

“Ugh,” Mycroft groaned as Radja smirked, entirely too proud, in retrospect, of a job well done. “Where are you going?”

“This calls for a celebration,” He announced, hopping quickly away as Mycroft watched him dress from where he remained in the bed. “Champagne! Maybe some _Ikayaki_ from that stall we visited the other day.”

His happiness was palpable as Mycroft watched him slowly pull on his pants. The corner of Radja’s lip lifted in a knowing smirk before he bent at the waist to retrieve the jeans that lay in a heap at the foot of the bed.

“Incorrigible,” Mycroft scoffed fondly.

Radja smiled over his shoulder as he fastened the jeans. “Perhaps I’ll get some of those _nikuman_ you love so much, yes?”

Mycroft looked out the window, the rain having only gotten heavier as night fell.

“Don’t bother.” Radja cut off Mycroft’s imminent protest.

“What?” Mycroft feigned, brow pulled low in question.

“Trying to convince me it’s not worth going out right now.” Radja’s low, warm laugh rose from deep within his chest, effervescent and wholly enticing. “I know you, remember?” He muttered through the fabric of his t-shirt before his dark head popped through the opening at the neck. “This.” His knees rested on the edge of the bed as he leaned down over where Mycroft still reclined, his voice gone soft. “Is worth a little celebrating and you are not going to worry me out of doing it. It’s just a little rain.” He gently reminded with a feather-light kiss to Mycroft’s waiting mouth. “I’m not the one made of sugar.”

With the tease, Mycroft pushed him away, fighting with the ridiculous smile which wanted to take over his face.

“If you’re determined to catch your death, then I would also request _taiyaki._ ”

“But, of course.” Radja smirked as he slipped on his shoes and headed for the door.

“The chocolate ones.”

“Is there any other?” With a wink he turned but stopped before he reached the door. “Love you.”

Mycroft found it hard to swallow, the sentiment a choking presence in his chest and throat. Filled with it. “I love you.” He sounded pained, and perhaps he was, looking at the man that he could finally, truly call his. Would be his, forever onward.

Their eyes met, held. One shining, infinitesimal moment before the spell was broken. Mycroft inhaled sharply and watched as Radja swallowed before turning to open the door.

“Don’t forget... the umbrella-” But the door had closed before Radja heard him.

 

* * *

 

 

_Radja Palit was killed that evening by a hit and run driver two blocks from their flat. They say he died instantly, which was a blessing for the victim, but for the ones left behind?_

The _one?_

_It’s true, Mycroft Holmes didn’t lay down and die of the heartbreak that would have felled any other human. Instead, upon hearing the news, he wrapped himself up tight, much like the furls of my canopy. He snapped his closure shut, and made a promise to himself that this would never come to pass again._

All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage.

_But, in his grief, he held onto me; his talisman to what once was. He takes me out only in the heaviest of downpours, on the darkest of days and in the fiercest of storms. I often times travel with him abroad but have yet to be taken back...back to where it all happened._

_I understand. It’s his way, and needs must. I do what I can._

_So, it comes as a surprise to me, after he returns from one such journey, that he reaches for me. I can already feel my ribs expand and relish the anticipation of the first cool droplets against my canopy._

_It’s been an age since I’ve left the dry sterility of the stand in the foyer. My excitement soon turns to dismay as the door opens and he steps across the threshold into a bright, clear noonday sun. My silver tip taps against the pavement with each of his steps before we get into the waiting car._

_I’m confused at this turn of events. He holds me steady, my tip planted between the shiny brogues on his feet. His fingers trace the bumps and ridges of my cane; an almost caress that leaves me feeling slightly of -kilter before gently twirling me around in the palm of his hand._

_It’s as discomfiting as it is alluring, this attention. I am unsteady with this heady turn of events. Blinded by this unparalleled experience, I merely bask in his regard to the exclusion of everything else around me. I work to memorise the texture of his fingers as they lightly play between the smooth tips and valleys of my handle before stroking down the curve of my shaft. The sensation leaves me not caring a whit for the brightness that is beyond the windows nor the uncommon redolent, sweet-smelling fragrance that fills the interior of the vehicle._

_I’m brought from my reverie as the car pulls to a slow stop and Mycroft lifts me out in front of him before stepping up to the kerb. The location is unfamiliar to me as we make our way inside. It’s crowded and noisy, a far cry from the civilised tranquility of the Diogenes. I tap along at his side, aware of the occasional surprised scowl as we pass, but as utterly unaffected by their censure as my bearer._

_Finally having made our way across the room, Mycroft stops in front of a frosted glass door, using my handle to knock._

_“‘S open!”_

_Before entering, Mycroft smooths the hand which holds me down the front of his suit, pulling to straighten the smooth fabric of his waistcoat. I revel in the wonder this day continues to be._

_“Mycroft,” The man behind the desk stands as we enter. “I didn’t think you were due back for another few days.”_

_The pressure of Mycroft’s hand tightens momentarily around my handle before I find myself shifted to his left hand, crowded against an unfamiliar handle of a parcel I hadn’t noticed he also carried._

_They shake hands, as careful pleasantries are exchanged._

_Finally, I am transferred back to my rightful position only to find Mycroft’s palm now damp as his fingers tremble lightly against me._

_“Please,” The man with the silver hair of ers the chair in front of his desk for Mycroft to use. “So, how was Tokyo?”_

_It’s all I can do to keep my stretchers from flying open as my ribs constrict tightly around my shaft. I wait for some sign of distress, some harsh comment to be sent flying in this oblivious man’s direction._

_“It was damp.”_

_The man behind the desk laughs, warm and deep. “I think that’s a first for me.”_

_Mycroft’s hand spasms against my handle, his fingers straightening before curling even tighter around my handle. “It’s the rainy season.”_

_“Oh? Well, then,” the man of ers rather lamely as they both fall into an awkward silence. “Is there...did you need something?”_

_“Yes.” Mycroft shifts, leaning forward to place the parcel he brought along, in the middle of the desk. It is a woven wicker basket in a half-moon shape filled with near palm-sized fruit, ranging in colour from deep aubergine to butter yellow._

_“Plums. You brought me plums?”_

_“Yes?”_

_“From Tokyo?”_

_“They are in season.”_

_They are both quiet for a long time and Mycroft now holds me so tightly in both hands I feel as if my shaft will snap in two. “I thought perhaps you might like-”_

_“They’re my favorite.”_

_I feel every bit of tension instantly drain through the tips of Mycroft’s fingers. “I had hoped.”_

_There is another pause, but this one feels much less rigid, as if I have missed something very significant here._

_“Well, Inspector, I mustn’t keep you from your duties any longer.” Mycroft stands abruptly before he turns for the door._

_“Wait. What? Inspector? What happened to calling me Greg?”_

_Clearing his throat, Mycroft stops and turns back to the Inspector, as I swing freely in his grip. “My apologies. Gregory.”_

_The corner of Greg’s mouth twitches before he lifts his chin in my direction. “I’ve always meant to ask.”_

_"Yes?” Mycroft prods when Greg doesn’t offerr to continue._

_“It’s silly, but...well, your umbrella, it’s always reminded me,” He stops, runs a hand through his rather attractive hair. “I’m sure you wouldn’t know the reference, but…”_

_“But?”_

_A nervous laugh. “It’s always reminded me of Charlie Chaplin. He was-”_

_“A silent film star of the early 20th century. I’m aware.”_

_“Ah, so a fan then?” He asks, coming around to the front of his desk before leaning one hip against the edge._

_Mycroft taps my tip against the floor. “After a fashion.”_

_I find the silence fascinating as they both do their best to look at one another while still not catching the others’ eye._

_Greg lifts a plum from the basket, buffing the amethyst-hued fruit against his shirtfront. “There’s a tiny little theatre in Brixton, showing a revival of Chaplin films this weekend.”_

_Again, Mycroft’s hands tense too tightly around the cane of my handle before gently relaxing as he answers. “Is that so?”_

_Greg takes a bite of the plum, the sound juicy and voluptuous. “I thought that maybe- That is, perhaps, you’d like to...go?”_

_“With you?”_

_“Well, yes?”_

_Mycroft fidgets, spinning me on my tip, round and round. “I would be amenable.”_

_Greg smiles wide, taking another bite of the fruit before going back to his seat behind the desk. “Good. Great! It’s a date then.”_

_“Is it?” Mycroft’s surprise is more than evident as he inhales sharply once the question escapes._

_“Isn’t it?”_

_A tremor runs through Mycroft’s body. I can feel it transfer from his hands to my handle before he nods. “Yes.”_

_The smile that tips the corner of Greg’s mouth is full of fondness. “Good. That’s great. I’ll text you with the time?”_

_“Yes, that will be fine.” Mycroft finally reaches for the door, opening it up to the noise beyond. “Have a good day, Gregory.”_

_“You, too,” he hesitates before continuing. “Thanks, for the plums.”_

_Mycroft pauses with this hand on the doorknob. “My pleasure.”_

_As he walks through the crowded space I find myself suddenly twirled whimsically around his wrist and realize I have probably seen the last of my long days relegated to the umbrella stand._

 

 


End file.
